


Blue all in a rush

by twofrontteethstillcrooked



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 01:33:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19241137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/pseuds/twofrontteethstillcrooked
Summary: There were dozens of questions Flint wanted to ask. He chose, "Did it not occur to you I would find out you were here almost immediately?"





	Blue all in a rush

**Author's Note:**

> Illustrations done by the awesome [Memeromatikan](https://memeromatikan.tumblr.com) {throwing confetti}

~

_Nothing is so beautiful as Spring--  
Gerard Manley Hopkins_

~

Late March

It stopped raining for the first time in 42 hours the minute Flint crawled into the driver's seat. The clouds parted, the birds immediately began gossiping and dive-bombing each other in lusty rivalry, the tree frogs sang, and even children's laughter could be heard echoing out from the neighborhood next to the park. Flint, by contrast, yawned and wondered if his boots would ever dry out. The ranger life suited him far more than he'd thought it would originally. Perhaps it helped that the park was only a few miles inland. Plus, he was still in charge of something he believed in, and it wasn't like he could claim his former career hadn't been frequently wet. But that was the thing: he hadn't expected to be damp quite so often in his post-captaincy on dry -- ostensibly dry -- land.

The cold wet spring seemed to be taking an eternity to turn milder. 

At a traffic light on the other side of Water Meadow, Flint remembered he had a voicemail to check.

_"--So we'll be here another week and then I think Thomas has us booked for a different hotel closer to the botanical gardens. If you could drop by my house and make sure the sitter is all set, I will dance at your next wedding. What? Oh, Thomas says hello and that you would like the library at the edge of the park down the street, should you ever find yourself in Helsinki. Take care of yourself, James. That's from me. Love you."_

Flint sighed at the phone in his hand and disconnected. He'd started towards Miranda's house by instinct, or willful forgetfulness. The trip she and Thomas had embarked upon a few days ago had circled around in Flint's consciousness like a couple of lazy wasps; from behind the wheel of his car he squinted at the wreath of dried wheat on her front door and realized he hadn't expected her to go, which was entirely selfish of him. If he'd said he wanted to go too, no-one, least of all Miranda, would have said no. 

Not that he had wanted to go. He rubbed an eye, fished out an errant eyelash. Took a deep breath and made himself hold it, let it out slowly, and repeat. He just… Had the last year been different, his going might have been a forgone conclusion, such that right now he and Thomas would be quietly perusing a Finnish library, relaxed and secure in a committed relationship for the rest of their respective natural lives. Or, something equally heartening that didn't involve Finland at all.

A grey squirrel hopped up on the hood of the car, sat up on its hindquarters with its fluffy tail curled around its feet, and peered at Flint with a deeply skeptical expression.

Flint decided to disregard the time difference and called Miranda. 

After three international sounding rings: "You've reached the personal computing device of Miranda Hamilton. She is unavailable at the moment but if you wish to leave an intimate message, please stay on the line," a mild and masculine voice said.

"Hi, Thomas." Flint, going for a neutral tone, had instead landed on Overly Chipper. 

The squirrel cocked its head in amusement.

"Hey," Thomas said, with normal human inflection. "How are you?"

Flint cleared his throat. "Well. Doing really well. It sounds like your trip is going well."

"It is. We discovered the friendliest cafe for breakfast, and the weather is spectacular, completely priceless. Tomorrow the students arrive-- Oop, here's Miranda."

"James, hello." Miranda sounded like he'd woken her up, yet charmed he'd called. "How are you? Is everything all right with the sitter?"

"I'm fine," Flint said gruffly. "What's this about a house sitter? You know I could've taken care of things for three weeks." He opened the car door and forced himself to get out and stretch his legs. 

"You could have. This way you don't have to. Have you introduced yourself? I told him you'd be dropping by." The connection flickered a little and Miranda started to sound underwater.

"Yeah. I mean, no, I haven't introduced myself yet." Flint edged around a well used burgundy colored two-door sedan parked by the garage and started walking the flat cement steps laid through the lawn. A jolt of adrenaline made him speed up: a shadow had moved behind the living room curtain. "Anything I should know about this guy?"

Miranda said, "We only spoke for a few minutes before the cab arrived. Highly ranked on Errand Iguana. He seemed pleasant, subdued, but responsible. I think he said he's teaching summer classes locally."

"Maybe having to teach summer school has drained the life-force from him," Thomas called out from somewhere behind Miranda, to which Miranda chided, "We're teaching summer school."

"Way out of town, though," Thomas countered.

Flint interrupted to ask, "What's his name?" as he stepped up to the door and raised a fist to knock. 

Before his knuckles touched the wood the door opened and he was confronted with two cornflower blue eyes widened with surprise.

John Silver, Flint thought, feeling his throat close off as at exactly the same time, Miranda replied, "Solomon Little."

"I'll call you back later," Flint choked out, and hung up.

~

Silver had cut his hair. That was the second thing Flint noticed. Silver had a neck. A throat. Collarbones. Ears. (Small ones.) And anyone with functional eyes would be able to look upon, unobstructed, all of these features. 

To reinforce the reality of Silver and his throat standing in Miranda's kitchen, he was explaining, "I'm teaching a three week class at the parks and rec department, an introduction to green magic. That's what they're calling it, but it's just a class about slowing down, getting out into nature when you can, becoming one with the sea and sand, making your own potpourri, that kind of thing." He took the kettle off the stove and poured hot water into a glass pitcher and over what looked, in fact, like a pile of potpourri. "Dandelions, minced ginger, cardamom seed," he said, seeing Flint's expression. 

There were dozens of questions Flint wanted to ask. He chose, "Did it not occur to you I would find out you were here almost immediately?"

Silver exhaled. "I didn't-- It's not like Miranda mentioned you were living in town. And she and I. We'd met, what, once before?" He sounded odd -- less sure of himself than he used to. "Not for nothing, but when I originally took the Errand assignment, she was listed on the contract as Randy Hamilton, not Miranda Barlow." He patted the counter absently. "Although I guess that should've caught my attention even before I arrived."

At the back of Flint's mind, he was already scripting his next conversation with Miranda. It would feature every expletive Flint knew and a severe criticism of her dirty pun.

In the absence of Flint responding, Silver said, "How've you been? How's, you know, Mr. Hamilton? Miranda said his TA is condo-sitting for him."

Through clenched teeth Flint said, "He's fine. We are both fine." He felt himself staring and couldn't stop. There was something off about Silver, aside from the unlikeliness of him being in the room to stare at. The way he held himself, with his shoulders slightly hunched in; or the way he wasn't so much averting a gaze as not engaged enough to fix one on anything, including Flint. 

Silver had been many things, when Flint knew him before. Cagey wasn't a descriptive Flint would have used. When they'd initially met, his first impression was that Silver was a slippery as eel innards. He'd proven to be far more substantial than that, and even if he was trying to con someone, he tended to take a more straightforward approach. He had, at times, appeared fearless to Flint. 

(Alternately: terrified. Hilarious. Surprisingly competent. Steady; a presence Flint had grown to rely on like oxygen. Not that it mattered now.)

Silver had lied his way onto the _Walrus_ as a cook, given half the crew food poisoning, weedled his way into Flint and Eleanor's schemes to defraud the wealthiest and most noxious passengers, transformed the crew into his own personal cheerleading squad, become quartermaster, and intervened on multiple occasions to keep Captain Flint from sinking into a watery grave, literal or metaphorical. Some marks had been more dangerous than others; Walrus Adventures LLC's last had been a nasty piece of work named Rogers. The venture collapsed rather chaotically and in no small part due to Silver, who'd vanished in the resulting fray, and Flint had been too busy rearranging his whole world to regret his absence much. Those occasional-to-frequent hollow sensations behind Flint's breastbone were random and coincidental, no doubt. 

A part of him wanted to be galled at Silver having the nerve to come back to port as though it was no big deal. To be fair, in a place like Water Meadow, it wasn't: the town was never short of crooks and miscreants, and rarely unwelcoming to them. Still, as Flint watched Silver stir the tea, a tickling feeling began to climb up his spine. He'd learned the hard way not to ignore his instincts about Silver, and what Flint was witnessing…

Silver was not spinning a yarn. He wasn't dazzling a crowd or burying a lead. He wasn't diving deep and finding a weakness to take advantage of, explaining betrayals, or even small talking the weather. He didn't really want to know how Flint was doing, and he certainly wasn't apologizing for mistakes made. He'd be in town three weeks and gone again. 

And Flint, suddenly, was ecstatic. His chest felt full to bursting. He rang with glee like a giant bell had been struck. It was a job to keep from smiling so widely his jaw would lock. 

"How's Madi?" he asked, knowing, absolutely positive of the answer.

"She's well," Silver said. No inflection or enthusiasm. No light in his cornflower blue eyes. "Last time I talked to her, anyway."

AH-HA. Brilliant, Flint thought. Serves him right. Justice. 

His stomach hurt. He missed Madi, for a second, like being hit by a bus. He ran as fast as possible from any further thought of her. Must be time for dinner, Flint told himself, biting down against a wave of badly-timed nausea.

After impressing upon Silver that he, Flint, would personally murder him in a variety of uniquely painful ways if he, Silver, so much as left a ring of soap scum in Miranda's bathtub, Flint drove away home. He saw the yards shining green in the fading sunlight and the budding trees swaying in the breeze. He opened the door to the carriage house and the clean palest gray walls inside welcomed him as if to put him utterly at ease. Nearby, water rustled against the rocky shoreline. He thought of the curls falling dark across Silver's forehead and then pushed the image aside. Flint treasured peace within himself and ignored a familiar and unimportant hollowness as he dialed Miranda.

She answered, because she was a wise jewel of a woman. By way of greeting, she said, "I hope you mentioned to him" -- pause for a yawn -- "that the flower-boxes need to be watered if it doesn't rain." 

"It's rained almost the whole time you've been gone." Flint didn't mean to sound maudlin.

Miranda tsked. "Spring brings its own sort of fierceness, doesn't it?" She made a noise like she was stretching. "I hope he has everything he needs." An offhand remark, as though she were referencing cereal or shaving cream. Flint could hear Thomas speaking. "Ah," Miranda explained. "Thomas says if you do anything that's going to have to be investigated by the police before we get back, the lawyers have told him the retainer won't cover homicides anymore."

They talked a while longer. Flint wound up on the couch and bizarrely fell into a coma after the call ended. About 1 a.m. he put himself to bed, his head heavy as a boulder. No one, he thought before sleep overtook him again, had ever told him elation was so exhausting.

~

Two busy days passed without incident, that annoying, harmless, hollow feeling lingering in Flint like a head cold. On the third morning he ponied up for legal stimulants laced with enough sugar to stun a moose and brought one for Eleanor as well.

She leaned against her desk, trenta mocha latte hoisted, and raised an eyebrow at Flint. "I hear your old comrade Long is back." She took a sip and savored it. "Must be hard for him to come back after all this time. Considering the way things were left." She sounded every ounce the diplomat she had always pretended to be, talents that served her well as current president of Guthrie Parklands (spacious, half forested, originally privately held, gifted ("gifted") to the town and open to the public 365 days a year).

"Not sure it's any of my concern if, as you say, it's hard for him to be here again." Flint watched his crew on the front office grounds through her bay window; the crew naturally commanded his attention by virtue of being, at any moment, about to lose any number of body parts to any number of bush-clearing tools or the occasional bout with scurvy.

Not that Eleanor was deceived by Flint. "So he's miserable and you're thrilled about it." 

"And things weren't _left_. Things fell apart the way buildings crumble when you pack them with explosives and deploy a detonator." Flint pitched his napkin into the nearest trash can. 

Eleanor gave him a rueful smile. "Plenty of us contributed explosives. At least the _Walrus_ didn't actually sink off the coast."

"She fetched an equitable price."

"That she did." Eleanor looked thoughtful. "My father would have been honored, I think, by what we've accomplished with those earnings."

"He certainly would've approved of the money laundering portions, sure."

Eleanor smirked. "But back to the real topic at hand."

Flint shrugged. "Yeah, I'm happy he's unhappy." Something squirmed in his belly when he said it. "The way he checked out caused a lot of mess. The least he can do is pretend to be regretful." He paused at the way Eleanor was studying her desk calendar. "I take it you may feel differently?"

Eleanor looked up. "No, no, I see your side of it. I just imagine there were more than a few people who felt the way about me that you do him. Back when I had my." She waved around her hand. "My troubles."

Flint couldn't disagree with her. The Guthrie family had a well known, frequently controversial history with the town, and Eleanor's reign over the once flourishing mega-wealthy-tourist trade had made her more than a few enemies. However, in this town, tourist was mostly synonymous with criminal (albeit the white-collar kind). _(Mostly.)_ Her ex-husband had been that type, with a streak of sadism thrown in for good measure; his threats against Madi had prompted Silver's last exploits. The collective effort it otherwise took to put Rogers out of commission (ahem) had been a real bonding moment for the disparate factions in Water Meadow.

Then Eleanor said, "Though it has been some time since I first extended my promise of protections to Mr. Silver, nothing has happened that would negate what I told him."

Well, now, that was a throwback. Flint had forgotten Silver had helped Eleanor with a...diplomatic mission not long after being hired. 

"Don't make me kill you." Eleanor crossed her arms over her chest as if she knew what Flint was thinking. "You are our best park employee and an exemplary foundation trustee. I'd hate to have to replace you." She glanced out the window and with visible effort did not sigh. "Especially considering how unlikely, or simply inadvisable, it would be to promote from within as things stand."

Outside, Dooley was trying to balance a small empty orange juice bottle on his forehead while Crisp tried to pour coffee into it. Flint could see steam coming off the liquid as it ran all over Dooley's face.

"You know," Eleanor started. Flint gave her a look and she narrowed her eyes. "I was just going to say, skills are often transferable. If Mr. Silver chose to stay in Water Meadow this time 'round, he might be as much an asset to your team here as he was elsewhere." She took a sip. "Or an asset to you."

The squirming feeling intensified. Flint finished his own coffee in one giant swallow. "I doubt he'll be staying." 

~

That night he dreamt of the open ocean, for the first time in months. He sank to the floor of the cabin, as unmoored as driftwood. Silver came and sat beside Flint and did not speak. The longer he stayed, the better Flint could breathe. He caught Silver's hand with his own.

It was only when he woke he remembered the weight of Silver's hand was wholly imagined. 

~

Even as he hacked at wild growing things with a series of hatchets and saws, the idea of Silver staying in town lodged in Flint's brain, growing all week with the ferocity of kudzu or euonymus. He attributed this to poor sleep; he'd always been prone to restlessness as the days grew longer. Saturday he met Gates for an after-dinner drink at Croque Madame. Gates waved to him from his usual corner and was shaking his head as Flint approached.

"I've seen sailors who fell overboard who looked a sight jollier than you," Gates informed him.

Flint hung up his raincoat and was about to sit down. "Your tact, as ever, is commendable." 

Gates finished a huge gulp of Guinness and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Go place your order." The glimmer in his eye made the hairs stand up on Flint's arms.

At the counter he discovered why.

"Ah," Silver said, after turning around with a bottle of Pirate's Grog in his hands and finding Flint at his register. "Good evening."

"Might've guessed you'd end up here," Flint said.

"Yeah, Max was about as happy to see me as you were." Silver wiped up two rings of condensation from the last beers that had been on the counter. 

"You used to talk about maybe running your own place one day." Not exactly what Flint had meant to say, but the words still came out of his mouth.

Silver didn't confirm or deny anything. "What can I get you?"

"Mojito," Flint said, because it was the only mixed drink he'd ever heard a bartender complain about. 

Silver gave him a tolerant look. "Take a seat, I'll bring one over."

A solid thirty minutes later Max herself brought Gates his third Guinness. To Flint she said, "We do apologize for the delay. Mr. Silver did not find the mint we had on hand to be to his standards. I ensured him, as I do you, that in future our daily buyer will do a better job at inspecting the ingredients we purchase. Some acceptable fresh mint has been procured and I believe your drink will arrive momentarily." Her light French accent and pleasant smile did not disguise her typical of level of contempt for Flint.

"No problem," he said, pretending to be breezy.

Gates chuckled for a full five minutes after Max left the table. He'd stepped away to the loo when Silver arrived and handed Flint the mythical mojito.

"It's on the house," Silver said quietly as he took up his crutch to return to the bar.

That the mojito was, without question, the best mojito Flint had ever consumed did not lessen the feeling that something as relentless as grapevine was burrowing its way into his head. Gates returned, and they spent a genial enough hour or two catching up on local gossip and job gripes. Regulars came and went. Georgia blocked a couple of wasted uni kids from even getting through the door; a different party of uni kids ran out after them and a celebration sprang up on the curb before being washed out by a fast moving monsoon. Flint didn't watch Silver storytelling while pouring lagers, entirely because Silver wasn't playing master of the house. The polite but impersonal way Silver dealt with one customer after another made Flint feel like he had slipped into an alternate dimension. Gates's stoic pity took the form of a back slap around 11:30 and a sigh of comradery before he wandered out to find a cab.

Flint was home again before midnight, the dark shapes of the buildings around the carriage house like furred creatures hibernating. He closed his front door as silently as possible, as though to keep from waking them, but envied their ability to slumber without struggle.

~

The mayor had a tendency to show up at the park with huge delegations without warning; sometimes Flint thought Julius did it _as_ a warning, a show of institutional strength or because he thought it would antagonize Flint. The corporate contingent following Julius like ducklings were being sold a story about Water Meadows that made the town sparkle like gold coins tipped from a treasure chest. It wasn't entirely a bill of goods, but Flint and Julius both knew what it had taken to bring the town to its current state of tranquility and prosperity. 

As the cheery business people ooh'd and ahh'd over their posh box lunches set up on the picnic patio, Julius strolled over to the fence Flint was painting with Lars and Nicky. 

"Yes, I'm aware John Silver is back in town," Flint said without looking up.

Julius smiled. "That shouldn't be a problem for you anymore."

Flint rolled his eyes at him. "What do you want, Julius?"

Pride tugged at one side of Julius's mouth. "These nice folks are going to sponsor a scholarship at the community college for a forestry field camp. Thought that might be something you'd like to work with us on later this year, Captain." 

Flint blinked. "Well. Yes."

"Good. I'll keep you in the loop." Julius put his hands in his expensive suit pockets, winked, and walked away whistling.

Flint stood up fully to inspect his handiwork with the paint, at which point Lars whispered, "Pssst, boss."

"Yeah."

Lars scratched his jaw. "Silver's back?" He and Nicky exchanged a look.

"He's here for a few weeks," Flint said.

Nicky ventured, "So he's gonna come head up the crew again?" 

Flint tried not to be insulted by the amount of enthusiasm in Nicky and Lars's faces. "No," he said. "He's working elsewhere."

"Aw, man. Drag." Nicky shook his head.

Lars made a whatta-ya-gonna-do gesture. "You see him, say hey for us," he told Flint.

"Sure." Flint bit down on one of those strangely arbitrary hollow feelings and took such a huge interest in proper fence painting procedures that the conversation ended, thankfully.

~

The morning Miranda called Flint had taken exactly one drink of caffeine.

"Dr. Barlow," he said.

"Oh dear," Miranda replied. 

"Thomas texted. You made quite the impression on a couple of his underlings."

"Would that we could say the same for my own grad students."

"Joshua adores you. Charlotte--"

"--hates my breathing guts. I will win her over eventually, by tearing apart her thesis with love and helping her rebuild it, as any superior advisor is obliged to do."

"That should work." Flint chugged half his coffee.

There was a scritching noise, probably Miranda making notes in her ubiquitous leather journal. "You left me a message?" 

Flint had forgotten. "I was just checking in." He fidgeted with a mug of pens at the end of the kitchen counter.

Miranda was smiling when she said, "You know, I don't believe Mr. Silver did anything that you wouldn't have done, had you believed he was at grave risk."

Flint knuckled the spot between his eyes. "That's not." He fidgeted some more. "He could have talked to me. He could have trusted me enough to-- We could have figured things out together, and Madi wouldn't have been hurt either, and I don't know," he finished, feeling drained. He hadn't been prepared to talk rationally about Silver a year ago and he still wasn't. "I wasn't ready for things to end where they ended."

"With the life you led, or with him?"

He closed his eyes. "Either." 

"Well," Miranda said in her professorial voice, "I for one am euphoric that you did not come to a worse fate." Something chimed and Flint heard her stand up. "Gotta head out." 

"Have fun."

"Your story with him," Miranda said. "It isn't over. There will always be more to tell. You're always going to be in each other's lives because you're both still alive, for which you have him to thank. Perhaps you should find a way to make the most of that."

~

Late in the night he awoke with the certainty he'd been dreaming of Silver again. Silver bled heat like a fever; whether dream or memory, Flint couldn't say. He stared through the dark at the bedroom ceiling until his eyes adjusted. The fringe of the dream frayed further as he thought about it, trying to reel the story in. He remembered sitting down beside Silver and his hands itching to touch him. Silver saying startlingly smart things, like he'd been working out a puzzle in his mind and couldn't wait to show Flint the portrait of his cleverness, and Flint's mouth gone dry for thirst, hearing him lean in and talk and talk some more. The suspended look Silver gave him, pupils rimmed in aquamarine. His mouth a breath from Flint's. The way he crept into Flint's arms like he was seeking shelter.

All of it might have really happened, except it hadn't.

~

On the third decent day of weather in a row, Flint had plans for tackling the beds of peonies and hydrangea on the west side of the park. He hadn't intended to catch Silver at home -- or at Miranda's, as it were -- or anywhere else, for that matter, but Miranda had sent Flint a request. He put Logan in charge, god have mercy on the team's souls, and left work a couple of hours early. He pulled into Miranda's driveway and spotted Silver mowing the grass with a pair of scissors.

Out of the car, Flint stopped at the edge of the yard and watched him. Silver had lost a little weight; it was more obvious from a distance that his shoulders were thinner. His arms still seemed strong, strong enough to work his oversized hands that were dusted with dirt. Silver, seated on a patch of mossy earth, had his arms outstretched. He leaned towards the weeds he was cutting one at a time. Rote but concentrating, he dropped each stem into a lopsided clay bowl. His position was entirely supplicant. The sight of the bare back of his neck, just beginning to darken from the last week in the sun, made something twist inside Flint. 

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/182046727@N03/48074059148/in/dateposted-public/)

He's exposed, Flint thought. The back of Silver's neck would be warm. Flint sensed the heat of it in his palms as though he rested them there. Flint kept his eyes on Silver and imagined reaching into his own chest, burrowing past breastbone and muscle to pluck out a spitting little worm; when Flint had the squirming creature between his fingertips he dropped it and put his foot atop it. He ground it into the dirt with the ball of his foot and decidedly did not focus on the squelching noise the action made. 

When he came back to himself, Silver was standing, a slow but steady rise favoring his good leg and the bowl tucked under one arm. He turned and was watching Flint warily. When he saw he had Flint's attention, he nodded.

"Another pretty day," Silver called. He did not smile, nor step forward. 

"It is," Flint agreed. He came into the yard and found the path of stones to traverse. "May I ask what you're doing?"

Silver held out the bowl, full almost to overflowing with spindly pink-purple weeds. "Procuring dinner."

That made Flint stop halfway to him. "Yeah?"

"They're edible," Silver said. The briefest of smiles crossed his mouth and Flint took a breath trying to wish it back. "You're not familiar with henbit? I'd have thought a man of the forest such as yourself would know all about edible wildflowers."

"Weeds," Flint corrected.

"Potato, _Solanum jamesii_ ," Silver said, the latin flowing off his tongue like he had a doctorate in ancient languages instead of contract to teach classes on snake oil. Flint must have looked puzzled, because Silver clarified, " _Solanum_ \-- Wild potato. Do not eat wild potatoes."

"Don't worry."

"Wild onions, alternately, are great, and there're some growing out back I thought I'd dig up." The way Silver looked at Flint as Flint came closer was a master class in deception. There was no fear on Silver's face, but also no charm. No beckoning tilt to his head. "Unless you need me to do something else first."

Flint dusted off his hands like he'd been doing something productive. "No, I'm just here to get a pile Miranda wanted taken to the dry cleaners."

Silver said, "She could've asked me. That sort of thing's well within my purview as housesitter."

"She knows I know the business she uses. It's not a bother." Flint wondered if his own expression was as neutral.

"Okay." Silver shifted the bowl to his other hip. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Door's unlocked, of course."

Flint stayed rooted until Silver had rounded the corner of the house. 

In the laundry room Flint opened four cabinet doors before finding the stack of old quilts Miranda wanted laundered. Their mustiness wafted up like a plume of dust. Miranda had salvaged all from her great aunt's estate a few years ago, for reasons Flint had never understood. These quilts were not works of art; they had been pieced together from faded scraps of everyday clothing worn to death and the great aunt, beloved or not, had had no eye for color or pattern. Not even Thomas had found them interesting, and he'd once owned more than one seersucker suit. 

Flint glanced out the window and saw Silver frowning at the ground and gripping a bunch of skinny green leaves. 

When Flint returned to the yard, he plopped the quilts on the cleanest looking of Miranda's wrought iron chairs and went over to inspect the harvest. Silver was seated again, this time by the fence, old three-pronged cultivator in hand. After a minute he gave up trying to rake his way to success and started using the handle to dig. 

"I think you're going to need another bowl," Flint said.

Silver gave a small huff as the white pearls of onion rose from the soil from his proddings. "You could get me one," he said in a clipped voice, as he shook loose dirt from the onions.

The annoyance in his tone made Flint smile. He decided to take pity on Silver just this once and fetched another bowl from the collection of stoneware on the shelves inside the back door to the kitchen. 

"Here." He knelt down so Silver could divest himself of the onions he was holding like two handfuls of mutated, oversized teeth. "I suppose a person could keep from starving to death eating these."

Silver narrowed his eyes at him. "They'll clean up nicely. Good for flavoring."

"Sure." 

"Don't let me prevent you from getting those quilts wherever they need to be."

Flint stepped back to let him stand up. "Oh, I'm in no rush."

"Right." Silver took the bowl from him and picked up the other bowl. He looked around the yard as though searching for his next meal or wishing Flint would simply disappear. 

"I admit I'm curious what you'll be cooking with your selections here," Flint heard himself say.

An expression crossed Silver's face so quickly Flint went stock still. Silver stared at a spot to the left of Flint, over his shoulder perhaps or at nothing at all. 

Hope, Flint thought. For a moment Silver had been hopeful.

For a moment, Flint had been too. The worm, resuscitated, wriggled in his chest, though; and the light had gone out of Silver's eyes again like a switch had been thrown.

Silver marched to the kitchen door and paused. "If you'd like to stay for dinner." He squared his jaw, looking anywhere but at Flint. "There will be enough for two." Flint followed him inside the door and was content to stay quiet when Silver said, "Are you leaving the quilts outside?"

Flint didn't answer. He just put his plan to action. In the toolshed he found a spool of smooth nylon rope. Nothing of his nautical training had ever come in handier than his ability to tie a useful knot. In under fifteen minutes he had strung up two sturdy clotheslines between the smaller sweetgums and the quilts were swaying in the breeze.

He found Silver mincing up cleaned onions on a wooden chopping board. The henbit had also been washed and was lined up on paper towels. In the most gigantic bowl Miranda owned Silver had cracked multiple eggs.

"Do you mind whisking?" Silver asked. 

Flint almost hated to break the sunrise-orange yolks but picked up the whisk anyway. As the eggs began to froth Silver scraped his onions into the bowl and then dropped in two handfuls of henbit. Flint pitched in some salt and pepper and gave the mixture one more stir. "Where's this going?"

Silver gestured at the cast iron skillet on the stove, where melted butter was starting to foam. "Just until it sets, then it'll go in the oven." He used a spatula to get the bowl emptied into the skillet. "Thanks," he said as Flint put the bowl in the sink. He focused on the eggs in the skillet, stirring a few times.

When the dish was in the oven he returned to the leftover henbit. 

"They're like orchids," he said, holding one stem out to Flint. "Tiny, tiny orchids."

This was actually news to Flint. Squinting at the miniscule flowers, which were indeed very orchid-like, he had a sensation of missing a beat.

"You work in a park," Silver said, sounding almost judgemental.

"If you tell me to stop and smell the roses once in a while, I will pinch you." Flint put the henbit down. "Miranda is paying you enough that you don't have to go scouring the suburban outback for food."

"Way to miss the point."

"Which is?"

"Why would I pay for baby spinach, say, for a fritta when I can go out into the yard and harvest a good green source of iron for free." His voice had gone flat again. 

Flint ignored the feeling of a heavy limb laid across his shoulders, but his mind conjured up words nevertheless: I miss how you used to talk to me.

No matter. After twenty or so minutes of no-one saying anything -- Flint sat at the kitchen table thumbing through an ancient copy of "The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy" and Silver in the laundry room folding towels -- the frittata was removed from the oven and allowed to rest while Silver boiled water for iced tea. For what seemed like nine hours he and Flint ate and drank in silence that could have been considered companionable if not for how much Flint wanted to crawl out of his skin like a wet stocking and have a bloody raving tantrum on the kitchen floor. The thought of telling that story to Miranda and her hiccuping with amusement was all that kept him upright.

"This isn't bad for something composed of 50% weeds," Flint noted after one swallow, glad to sound, to his own ears anyway, like he wasn't about to go insane.

"Thanks," Silver said, smiling a small smile at his plate.

Later, at home, Flint flinched away from his thoughts like he was asking himself to pull the cast iron skillet out of the oven without a glove or potholder. He took deep breaths and rolled his eyes and ground his teeth. He typed a text to Miranda saying, "Having a day," and deleted it before his treacherous thumb could press the send arrow. He typed a text to Thomas saying, "By the way, I'm sorry about everything," and recklessly let it fly across the oceans. 

Known insomniac Thomas sent back a smiley face right away and posited, "I know. How's John?"

Different, Flint thought. Phony, maybe. Biding his time. Or: protecting himself more. Or protecting himself less?

"He's sad," Flint typed before he could even process the truth of it.

Thomas said, "Sad like pathetic? Or sad like grieving?"

"The latter," Flint said, to which Thomas sent a series of frowny emoticons.

Flint held the phone and considered how much trouble it would be to replace it if he flung it out the window into the nearest oak.

Thomas said, "You could help."

Flint thought about it.

Thomas said, "Let me restate that. You should help."

Flint said, "I'm not the reason he's sad. Madi is the reason he's sad."

Thomas sent, "Aw, I love you. You're dumb."

Flint was about to type a protest. Thomas interrupted with, "Good night, James," after which Flint knew not to push his luck.

He put the phone on the bedside table and laid down. He remembered the small smile Silver had made, and the back of his neck downy soft, vulnerable. In Flint's mind he bent his fingers around Silver's neck the way he might pick up a hatchling fallen from a low nest. He imagined the warmth of skin against palm. He waited for the vehement sheer _want_ within him to fade. 

He slept, but awoke unrested, his hands still curled as if keeping someone close.

~

On Wednesdays, Water Meadow turned its square into a market filled with booths like Brother Eli's Cheese, Berea Seeds-n-Stuff, Mountcastle Cider, and Rackham's Millinery. Flint had almost reached his goal, Fat Cat Fish Hut, when Rackham made an appearance.

"Captain," Rackham nodded respectfully.

"Captain," Flint returned. "Thought you were still out at sea with Bonny." 

"Due to unforeseen circumstances we were forced to cut our last cruise short." Rackham adjusted his waistcoat and sniffed. "Which is to say Mark, my first mate -- you've met Mark -- was suffering from a regrettable bout of stomach flurge. Recovered, thankfully. Being home before the summer cruises start up again, though, has given me plenty of time to replenish the larder for the upcoming horse racing season."

Rackham was the only person Flint had ever met who could successfully commandeer a boat (legally or not), collude with any number of known scoundrels (Silver included), and outfit a flock of dilettantes for the Triple Crown. 

"If you're searching for your errant quartermaster," Rackham said, "he's over there." He tipped his head toward the rec center's wrap-around porch.

Without acknowledging his interest to Rackham one way or another, Flint took the opportunity to walk past the Fat Cat and circle around to the other side of the porch, from where he could observe in relative peace, save a number of meandering bumblebees.

Nine women (average age: 73) and Silver were seated at a round table. A huge vase of fresh lilac stems decorated the table. Flint took a seat on a step and concentrated to hear the conversation through the white noise of market customers passing to and fro and school kids playing on the lawn. 

"I killed an Arizona Bark Scorpion that had crawled in my boot with this one," a woman with stark white hair said. Flint recognized her by her voice: Marion Guthrie. He focused his eyes in time to see her thrust the bush knife in her hand forward like she was gutting an attacker. 

Silver grinned. "When were you out west?"

If he, like Flint, expected the answer to be, 'Sixty years ago,' he didn't show it when she said, "Last August. Hot as balls, young man."

The other women had started plunking their own knives on the tabletop with enthusiasm. At final count, three had bush knives, three owned single blade folding knives, one had a whittling knife she kept in a velvet envelope, and two showed off the various tools of their pocket knives. Silver had a pocket knife too; his was the only one that came with a pair of pliers, which impressed the women. 

"You never know when you're going to need to pull out someone's fingernails," Marion said, in a tone of voice that indicated she was in no way being facetious. 

"We've talked about knife safety," Silver said, "and I'll add that overall safety in the wild is obviously increased if you can see what you're doing. Janey, your envelope would be the perfect place to keep a flint stone or a piece of quartz." The women made a collective sound of approval. "Also, once, I used an old two-blade I had -- jammed one end in the trunk of a maple, and had the other one folded up, in an L shape, to use it as a candlestick holder. I had matches with me and it was simpler than building a whole fire for just myself. Plus, ambiance."

He made it sound like the memory was not of something bad, but Flint couldn't help wondering if it he'd been lonesome then anyway. What Flint knew of Silver's life before their acquaintance was that for Silver the past was as treacherous as an overgrown forest at night. It had once irked Flint how little Silver was willing to tell him of his past. In the present, remembering how reticent Silver had been made Flint weary with himself. He had become part of Silver's backstory; the finality of that thought pricked at him. Even though, technically, he could have stood up and walked over to Silver in a matter of seconds, it seemed as smart as walking into a dark woodland without a flashlight.

Silver continued on with the class, a thoughtful teacher. Flint started to feel like a spy watching him.

He had fed himself and was washing dishes before bed when someone knocked on his front door. He opened it to the sight of Silver struggling to hold a gigantic cardboard box pasted with a giant shipping label from Finland. On top of the box was a small white paper bag exuding a strong scent of chocolate.

"Miranda said you'd know what to do with this," Silver wheezed, hoisting his items into Flint's arms.

Flint staggered back from the box's weight. He remained upright long enough to transfer the box to the couch. "Come in," he said, already rummaging for scissors. The box soon spilt its secret -- 25 used books, including a coffee table book featuring paintings of square riggers and a paperback entitled _Beltane Rituals & Lore_, and a note from Thomas: "In case you've run out of things to read."

"Your house is smaller than I expected," Silver said, wandering around the living room slowly.

"Seems roomy compared to a captain's quarters." 

"Well, yeah. It's cozy. Not that Miranda's house isn't. Hers is way--"

"More posh." 

"I was going to say, hers is more a lady's house, if that's a distinction one can make. It reflects her, I bet." Silver touched the corner of the mantle. "Yours reflects you too: simple lines, refined, light-reflecting neutrals, fewer oil paintings of luxuriously naked women."

"I keep my collection in the grotto."

Silver indulged him by not commenting. He stopped moving. "You can hear the waves from here."

They both listened for a moment.

"This town is peculiar," Silver said. "There are so many places where you can't see or even smell the ocean particularly and then suddenly you take three steps east or south and you can hear the waves like birdsong. Or a tornado siren." He glanced away from Flint. "I didn't miss the sound of the water, until I did." 

"I saw you holding class on the porch," Flint said as he began to stack books onto the mantle. 

Silver didn't seem shocked. "Those women are wondrous. They all know far more than I do about almost everything, but they're also very tolerant as I suppose they feel they've been called to be."

"Thought a class about 'green magic' would feature, say, a treatise on balancing one's humours with crystals or how to cure canker sores with essential oils."

"First off, we covered essential oils last week; true, quality essential oils cost a small fortune and should never be taken internally. Secondly," Silver said, rocking back and forth on his real heel, "the best reason to keep a sharp, hard object around your neck or in your pocket is to have something to break a window with in an emergency."

"Fists work too," Flint noted.

"You would jump right to that." 

"Brownies." Flint had opened the white bag and found two fudgy squares nestled at the bottom in waxed paper. 

"With walnuts and dried cherries. In case you're allergic," Silver said. "Made fresh this afternoon."

"They smell delicious," Flint said honestly. 

The words, 'Stay and I'll share with you' did not, somehow, make their way out of his mouth.

Silver raised his hand and let it drop, like he'd thought better of saying something himself. "Well, I should go."

Flint walked him the few steps to the door. "Thanks. For the delivery. And dessert."

"You're welcome," Silver said, sliding past him near enough his fingers brushed Flint's forearm. "Have a good night."

Flint rubbed his forearm while he sent Miranda a text. "Let me know if either of you have forgotten my address."

He ate the first brownie while he waited. It was the richest, moistest, most decadent thing he'd ever eaten.

It was barely five in the a.m. in Helsinki and Miranda still responded with, "Did you give John the book about springtime celebrations?"

Ah, so that's what the Beltane book was. "No."

Miranda sent, "Better luck tomorrow," and signed off with a heart.

Flint sighed. He inhaled the second brownie like a starving dog because it wasn't like the brownie was going to eat itself.

~

At lunch Eleanor chewed her bite of hummus pita with the determination of someone unspooling an algorithm in her head.

"Madi hasn't said much about what went down with Silver," she said, as though Flint had asked.

He forced down his mouthful of turkey club before answering, "I wouldn't have expected her to." Where Eleanor could sometimes act as diplomat, Madi was a dyed in the wool conciliator, who knew how to wield authority like a sceptre: real power was knowing when to keep your mouth shut.

"I get the impression you and she haven't spoken either." Eleanor's blasé tone didn't fool Flint. 

"We'll talk one day, when it won't be so awkward."

"Are you thinking that day will arrive momentarily?"

"No." Flint conceded cowardice on this front. 

Eleanor ate some more pita. Her lack of follow up seemed like a rebuke. 

"How's Charles these days?" Flint asked. "Still as strapping and shirtless a Rhodes Scholar as ever?" 

Vane, new owner of the town's busiest piercing pagoda, had been recently seen in the busty company of a firebrand named Idelle, with whom Eleanor shared a mutual loathing.

"Oh fuck off."

"Can we go back to not discussing my relationships?" Flint smiled.

"Deal," Eleanor said, throwing some shreds of carrot at his head.

~

The next evening, after getting home, going inside made him feel he'd be trapped there with his own brain and a tragic lack of rum. The last hour at the park the day's earlier breeze had vanished and clouds clotted up overhead like spoonfuls of whipped cream. Standing on the narrow path that ran from the carriage house front porch to the next building to the next, he watched the sky. A shelf cloud had rolled in, marbled gray and white as a memorial arch. As it moved south it turned a smokey gray-blue that flickered with lightning. Wind, abruptly urgent, pushed at the sea with impatience and whistled through tree branches that had just unfurled their leaves for the year. 

The shutters on the buildings clacked. His ridiculous purchase, those buildings. He'd written a check the minute the realtor, Naft, told him the history. (It may have helped slightly that Naft had undervalued the property by a decent amount.) Flint did not ever think about his motivations regarding the purchase, or at least not without rum. He was content that the buildings were there and his; whatever he may have intended to do with them, whoever they may have made him think about, was none of his business. 

It was highly delusional and that was fine with him. He stood outside and let the wind scour his mind clean for a few more minutes.

He wondered if Silver had been watching the storm too. 

~

As a man of subtlety and stealth, Flint used the excuse of Miranda and Thomas coming home soon to visit Miranda's house and make an inspection. 

"Blatant harassment," Silver said while Flint checked the corners of the guest bedroom for cobwebs and crumbs.

"Your cleaning seems to have been thorough enough."

"Your glowing compliment is noted." Silver grumped past him and out the back door. He returned with a glass bottle.

Flint settled on a kitchen stool and perused the short wall of books and notebooks Silver had created. _"Fantastic Fruitful Foraging,"_ he read aloud off the spine of one cloth edition. "Seems to me foraging is often just another word for stealing."

"Like you have a problem with theft," Silver muttered. He uncorked the bottle he had mysteriously fetched from the stoop. Flint watched, keeping his questions to himself, until Silver reached for the pot of violets Miranda kept on the kitchen windowsill.

"What are you going to do?" Flint asked sharply.

Silver flinched but didn't put the flower back. He started to pour the liquid from the bottle into the violet pot. "Moon water is enhanced with the healing, powerful energy of the moon," he said, almost airily. "Super moon water is especially beneficial to plants such as African violets since, as you are probably aware, African violets are associated with water elements and home protection." He turned his head just enough to cock an eyebrow at Flint. "And obviously the moon water also helps increase the inherent spirituality of the flowers."

"You are completely full of shit." Flint leaned back against the counter, crossed his arms over his chest, and refused to savor anything Silver had just said.

Silver put the violets back on the windowsill. "I filled up the bottle with water and was going to put it in the fridge to, you know, have cold water to drink, and then got interrupted by Ms. Hudson from next door and accidentally left the bottle outside overnight." He pinched off an wrinkled up bloom and ventured a smile at Flint.

Flint endeavored not to return it. "I think it was a new moon last night."

"I shouldn't have to tell you the moon was still there," Silver said. He sounded somewhat appalled at Flint's supposed lack of celestial acumen.

"What did Ms. Hudson want?"

"She brought over that spider for Miranda." Silver pointed at a monstrously overgrown tarantula of a plant Flint had somehow missed hanging from the hook outside beside the toolshed. "I can't decide if she was being neighborly or actively hostile."

"Possibly both," Flint said, though he knew Ms. Hudson and Miranda had a friendly rapport often reinforced with bourbon and hot gossip. Against better judgement he asked, "Where will you be headed? After--"

Silver waved a hand. "Yeah. Not sure, exactly. Thought I might head down the coast. Warmer places should already be beefing up bartending staff." He looked at his feet. "If Madi's around, I might go visit her. She's...open to that, at least." 

"You've talked to her recently."

Silver looked up. "Yesterday. Just briefly. She says hi."

"If you talk to her again soon, say hi from me," Flint said, since that was what he was supposed to say.

He didn't say, I'd love to see her. He didn't say, Don't squander any opportunity to be in her company. If you stayed, she could come visit you here. Or visit me here. She could come visit us here. He didn't say a thing; the hollow feeling gaped inside him.

"Speaking of bartending," Silver said, voice flat as Volvic. "I'm due at Croque in twenty."

"Yeah," Flint said, coming down from the stool.

~

Strictly at random Flint had a craving for crabe farci, and Croque Madame was the only restaurant in town that served the dish. He took a small table in a corner by the window and watched the town strolling along while waiting for his food. Most of his crew, seated at the bar, took up his peripheral vision while they ate bowl after bowl of homemade pub mix and drank pints poured by Silver. The guys were hanging on Silver's every word like puppies, tails and tongues both wagging. Flint couldn't hear the conversation exactly, but it appeared as though Silver had regained some of his storytelling expertise, or maybe he'd evolved it. He wasn't raising his voice as if performing an oration; he talked like listening was half the point, like he cared about what the guys had to say in response.

Flint must have been extra hungry, the way his stomach clenched.

Silver looked over at one point, while Dooley was talking. He seemed surprised to see Flint there; he kept eye contact for an elongated moment that felt to Flint like a freefall. 

The moment passed with Esther arriving with Flint's first course. He tucked into a salad and kept his eyes to himself. 

Wondering what herbs were in the salad meant he was startled when Silver sat another glass of dry Riesling down by his plate. 

"Need anything else right now?" Silver asked.

Flint wiped his mouth with his napkin. "No, thanks. The salad's-- I assume you had something to do with it." He picked a wild violet off the plate.

"At lunch we've been doing an eat-your-yard menu, raising awareness about sustainability and that kinda thing. The salad translates well to the fancy dinner menu." Silver shuffled his feet. "And there are more wild onions in the crab."

"You turned out to be pretty good at this," Flint said. "Cooking, baking. Salad assembly. Those brownies were obscene."

Silver smiled as he looked away. "You were my first good teacher, so. Thanks for that."

"Food poisoning can be educational," Flint said, as though his chest didn't ache, "provided you survive it. I hope you don't settle for working at the first dive you come to. When you go." He pushed what little was left on his plate around with his fork. "You really should think about opening your own place, somewhere. Someday." He chanced looking up.

Silver watched him with soft eyes for a second, then nodded. "It's still on my bucket list. Someday." The sound of Max yelling something far back in the restaurant broke the spell. "I should go help."

"Yeah," Flint said, waving him off.

Silver glanced over his shoulder once as he walked away. Flint took a sip of wine and started making a list in his mind of the top five chores he needed to do in the next few weeks, in a world where Silver would be gone again and everything would be back to normal. The crab arrived soon after. Flint ate his meal. He drank his wine, people watched out the window. He did not look towards the bar area a single time.

~

He pressed the speaker button on his phone and settled onto the couch. "Isn't it around three in the morning where you are?"

Thomas answered, "3:24 a.m. to be exact. Your brooding woke me from a dead sleep. I took my leave of the company of a perfectly charming gentlemen -- though he was a snorer, bless him -- to return to my hotel room and call you. You're very welcome."

"Ah," Flint said. 

"Dreamed I was scraping a bowl of hernekeitto into a plastic tote. Miranda was flirting with a gentleman sporting a Balbo, and then I heard you letting out one of your legendary sighs." Thomas, Flint pictured, was sitting up in bed with his back to the headboard and balancing a cup of tea on his knee. "Are you coping?"

"Mostly." Flint crammed his toes under a pillow. "How are your students getting on with Helsinki's eccentricities?"

"They found an amusement park that opened early this year and all they want to do is throw up on roller coasters. I've moved a pop quiz to the morning before they get on the plane, the little shits." 

"Seems fair."

"Tell me what's going on there."

Flint paused. "He's leaving as soon as you're back, so. Not much."

Thomas gave a hum. "It's not surprising you formed such an attachment to someone who threw you a lifeline, in the thick of all those hurricanes you conjured -- and, of course, it seems as though he also needed you too. But circumstances have changed, so it makes perfect sense you'd be inclined to move forward." He sniffed, as if a bastion of nonchalance. "Shame you fell in love with him on top of everything else. That really complicates matters." 

Flint didn't answer. Thomas let out a parodying sigh.

"We always seem to have these conversations with a thousand miles of water between us," Flint said. 

"Yes," Thomas said. "But better than not having them at all, don't you think?"

"Is it?" 

"I have given a lot of thought to your former career," Thomas said. "And I have concluded that, whatever else happened, your original intentions were sound ones." He knew well enough not to say anything that listening Interpol or NSA agents could hang a hat on. "Men like my father, like Peter Ashe… Are to be suffered as seldom as possible. Two wrongs may not make a right, but sometimes they can make an equity."

"If this is a seduction, it's working," Flint said.

"I'll remind you of that upon my glorious homecoming."

"I don't think about everything I did very often," Flint said slowly. He hadn't considered himself a revolutionary, like Madi, or even a low-rent Robin Hood; he had been comfortable with escalating violence in a way that should have given everyone more pause than it had for quite some time. "I probably don't regret as much as I should. But I must admit," he said even more slowly, "I might have been somewhat, the smallest amount, depressed, back then, for a time, and Silver was, occasionally, a lifeline."

He could hear Thomas smile kindly. "Perhaps you feel exactly the appropriate amount of regret. Just enough to help you put some things right in the future."

"Maybe," Flint said, thinking of Silver on that last day, the wretched sorrow in his eyes. "Maybe."

~

On Monday Flint barred every quantifiable feeling from his head and stomach with pruning, pruning, and more pruning. Spring had started to outpace his and the crew's efforts, but they cleaned up a large hedgerow, the azalea by the memorial pond, the fenceline bordering the private cemetery aside the park's property, and a dozen or more pear trees that had gotten too top heavy. He cherished the smoldering feeling in his lungs when hauling debris to the chipper pile. They were done by five, quittin' time. He thought about Silver being gone again in a few days. 

"Want me to take those to storage?" Dooley asked, pointing at his loppers.

"No, I've got one more tree I'd like to finish." Flint headed east down the hill. "Tell Levi I'll be out by 6, would you?" Levi wouldn't mind staying for an hour of overtime.

Dooley waved in the affirmative and ran to catch up with Froom and Crisp, both of whom, from what Flint could tell, had taken off their work boots and were practicing somersaults along the knolltop. 

It was nearly too late in the season for pruning beech, but the one Flint sought had been on his to-do list for a solid three months. The breeze brought him the scent of blooming witch hazel and the riper barnyard smell of fresh mulch. The hike to the tree on the regular trail would've taken thirty minutes, and Flint halved it by cutting through the holly grove and winding his way up the old service path to the field adjacent the stands of beech. At her base he looked up into the huge gnarled limbs and realized he was one, not overly tall person, not much more trouble than a raccoon compared to a 183-year-old tree. The branches he wanted to reach weren't far off the ground; he'd go slow and apologize to Levi for taking longer than an hour.

Half standing in a crotch where he could still reach the target, he'd started a pile of dead wood and soft green branches at the beech's feet. A rustling noise told him someone was coming through the field, and when he heard Eleanor say something indistinct, he paid it no attention and kept at a tough old limb that was just a little too far away from him to reach up to comfortably. Eleanor said something more loudly, or at any rate her laugh carried further that time. Flint looked down and through the branches in time to see her reach the edge of the stand, accompanied, for reasons passing understanding, by Silver. Flint heard a scrape of boot sole against bark.

The next thing he heard was the thump of his body hitting the ground and Eleanor saying "Fuck."

It took a suspended second for Flint to take a large enough gulp of air for anything else to register -- a scratchy pain in his knee, for instance. He sat up grimacing as he picked off splinters from his recently pruned branches.

"Fuck fuck fuck," Eleanor said as she ran toward him, like she'd recently learned how not to stutter. "Are you all right?"

Flint clambered up and assessed his body parts. Nothing felt broken per se, only rattled like his bones were as loose as the sticks at his feet. 

"'m okay," he managed to say.

"I'll call Dooley to bring one of the carts," Eleanor said, already tapping at her phone.

"Not necessary," Flint said, intending to protest further, but Silver was reaching out a hand to gingerly help him lean against the tree trunk. He was as pale as Miranda in January.

"If you're about to pass out, you should sit down with your head between your legs," Flint told him.

"You fell out of a tree," Silver said, sounding scared.

"I'm fine."

_"You fell out of a fucking tree,"_ Silver said more angrily, as if Flint hadn't believed him the first time. His mouth was a tight line. He touched Flint's temple and wiped at something with his thumb. "You need medical attention."

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/182046727@N03/48074014131/in/dateposted-public/)

Flint took his hand and held it still. It was only a little smudge of blood on Silver's thumb anyway.

"Dooley must be gone," Eleanor muttered, punching at more screens on her phone. "Maybe Mosiah's still here."

"Maybe you could get your car," Silver suggested to her in a calmly authoritative way, which made Flint resent that he hadn't been a recipient of such a pleasant voice. "I'll stay with him."

"Fine." Eleanor clapped a hand on Flint's shoulder and Flint managed to not faint. "You sure you're not bleeding internally?"

"Probably I am, but it's fine." Flint smiled at Eleanor and her skeptical expression. "I swear I'm fine."

"I'll be back in five minutes," she said. As she turned she gave Silver a look of dismay Flint also took a moment to resent.

"Want to sit?" Silver asked, his hand around Flint's elbow.

"Not particularly." Flint looked around. His lopper was decidedly not sticking out of the earth or flung across the lawn. He looked straight up and saw the instrument hung on a limb right below the one he'd last been trying to cut. "I need to fetch that."

"I'm only in town another two days," Silver said, "so as a favor, a courtesy -- and yes, I'm aware I haven't earned such a thing, but I'm asking anyway -- could you stop trying to die." The agony in his eyes made Flint feel like he was plunging out of the tree again. "Is that even possible? That you could just not do a dangerous thing for ten fucking minutes." 

It was the closest Silver had come to sounding like himself in an age. 

Flint wanted to drown listening to him. "It was an accident," he said. "I fall out of trees all the time, that's half the job."

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/182046727@N03/48074120832/in/dateposted-public/)

Silver shook his head in bemusement. 

"Remember that time you dove in after me? Got me to shore I don't even know how." Flint took Silver's hand again. "Or the whole incident in the fight with the, the people? Those assholes from customs."

"Do _you_ remember?" Silver asked. "What day and month is it right now?"

"Smarch 41st."

"You are truly amazing, you know that?" Silver grumbled. He bent over to look at Flint's knee. "I think your trousers are going to need an expert tailor."

"I'm not giving money to Rackham, I'll just throw these away."

"Wasteful." Silver took his hand back. He looked at Flint for a second like he was going to say something and had then changed his mind. After a long moment, he said, "The park is lovely in springtime, everything blooming or sprouting or about to. The women in my class are so proud that the town has this park; Marion told me it set off a whole new round of public initiatives, and helped get a bunch of dirty officials kicked out of office." He smiled and tried to hide it. "The irony."

"Good of you to come visit." Flint noted with relief that color had returned to Silver's cheeks.

"I guess." Silver looked at him as though he couldn't help himself. The thought of that made Flint's knee stop hurting for a minute.

Eleanor came roaring into the yard driving her godforsaken little electric car. "I already called ahead to Urgent 1-2-3 and they're expecting us," she said out the window.

Flint picked his way over to the passenger side with Silver trailing beside him like a worried shadow. "They're going to charge me a week's salary for some cetrimide and a sticky bandage." 

"Let's make sure your spleen isn't about to explode or such," Eleanor said. "Please." As Silver climbed in the teeny tiniest backseat, she said, "We can take you to the parking lot on our way out." She glanced back and forth between him and Flint. "Unless everyone's going to Urgent."

"Parking lot's fine," Flint said. 

"Everything's just fucking fine," Eleanor said tightly.

Flint sighed on the inside, where he hoped all his blood was circulating in an uninterrupted fashion.

"Call me if you need anything," Silver told him as they dropped him off by his car. "I'm serious."

Flint nodded. 

The doctor patted him down, pressed on a few bruises, made him straighten and bend his knee about ninety times, and for good measure shined lights in his eyes, ears, nose and throat before declaring him banged up but fit. She'd bill Flint for the bandage and cetrimide.

By the time Flint was lolling post-shower on his own couch his phone had been overrun with texts from Miranda and Thomas. It seemed easier to call.

Miranda picked up on the first ring. "When I said take care of yourself while we were away, I neglected to specify that I needed you to avoid concussions or snapped necks, and that's on me, so I apologize." The plaintiveness coming westward across the ocean made Flint wince.

He used his most soothing tone to say, "I'm sorry for freaking everyone out. I have official proof of having no concussions, no broken bones, no ruptured liver, no accidentally discovered stage 4 cancer."

Miranda ignored him to ask, "Is Silver spending the night to make sure you wake up tomorrow?"

"No."

"Is he spending the night just for kicks," Thomas asked from probably over her shoulder.

"Also no. I'm hanging up now. I love you both very much," Flint added, knowing they would hear the sincerity beneath his insincerity.

~

Rising from bed with the alarm clock was a feat his whole person begrudged, but a day's worth of mowing, sweeping, and trimming did more good than harm. He took his time going home, was unusually chatty with the ladies at the bakery where he stocked up on breakfast for a week, and even tipped his head in greeting to Bonny next door. Rackham's sailing partner in crime, she also owned the cutlery shop and was beloved of the restauranteurs in the area (and married to one, Max, no less); to everyone else her penchant for sharpening ten inch chefs' knives out on the sidewalk appeared to be a glowering exhibition of sociopathology. He fixed himself a sandwich, took a shower, smelled sea salt through open windows, felt content about his place in Water Meadows -- right up to the moment he looked around at his house that only he occupied.

He sat with the feeling and tried to find a way to be brave.

After rubbing absently at his sore knee for a while, Flint picked up the phone. He sent Silver a single text: "Hey. In case I've never said it before, thanks for all those times you saved me."

He waited with a curious and unwelcome lump in his throat. When the text came, he swiped it open.

"You're welcome. Glad you survived, those times and yesterday." A minute later: "Would you like some company?" Followed by: "If you don't that's ok."

"I'd love some company," Flint wrote.

He looked out the window at the other buildings sitting empty and dark. Every day he walked by them at least twice without seeing them, on purpose. It was weird that he felt like crying. Probably a delayed reaction to falling out of a tree, he thought, and went to turn on the porch light.

~

"Thanks for texting Miranda," Flint said after opening the door. 

Silver crooked an eyebrow but came in anyway and followed Flint to the couch. "Thought she'd want to know." They sat in silence for a minute. 

Flint waited. Then moved the slightest bit closer. "I miss your speeches," he said finally.

Silver looked over, surprised. "I don't think-- I didn't give that many."

"You had a knack. A quality. Showmanship. No pun intended."

"Thank you," Silver said, trace of sarcasm in his tone. He looked away. "I don't always-- I'm not constantly wanting to have to talk to everyone."

"Yeah, I suspected you might not."

They listened to frogs in the treeline croaking for a few minutes.

"Feeling all right?" Silver asked.

"Little sore, not too bad." 

Silver's shirtsleeves were rolled up a couple of times; Flint apparently did not hide how transfixed he was by Silver's forearms, because Silver said, "At the risk of seeming brazen, I could offer you a quick massage."

Flint raised both of his eyebrows. "Sounds like code."

"There're essential oils in the car. There's-- I've studied this fast laying-on-of-hands technique for minor injuries. It's not really a massage, more like--"

"A manipulation?"

"Practical magic," Silver said. "An exchange of energies."

"Yikes."

Silver squirmed slightly and blushed. 

Flint's heart sped up like a complete traitor. "You should try," he said, feeling magnanimous. 

Silver gave him a skeptical look and stood up. He returned with a satchel. 

"Should I," Flint said, gesturing to the length of the couch. 

"You can just. Sit." Silver was distracted with his bag. He brought out two tiny glass vials. Flint moved ever closer, until his leg bumped against Silver's. Silver actively did not look at him. "Your shirt," he said in a near whisper.

Flint took off his shirt and held it on his lap. He tried not to slouch or shiver. His brain floated out of his skull like a soap bubble; he heard it *pop* somewhere around the mud room by the back door. He watched Silver hold up a palm and drip into it three drops of one oil and one drop of another.

"Three parts grapeseed to one part other," Silver said. He cleared his throat. "The other is just a blend of jasmine, geranium, rose, that sort of thing. Its scent is stronger; a little is all that's needed."

He used two fingers to swirl the four drops together in his palm. He nudged Flint's shoulder, and Flint turned away slightly. Silver pressed his fingertips to Flint's left shoulder, then his right, like the softest of anointings. Flint heard him rub his hands together before Silver pressed his hands flat to Flint's shoulder blades.

Flint inhaled, his breath shaking. Silver pressed his fingertips and thumbs into muscle. With careful pressure he used his huge hands to wring smooth everything knotted along Flint's vertebrae. Warmth flooded over Flint like he was sinking into a hot bath. He kept from moaning aloud by sheer force of will. 

Silver finished by slowly running his hands across Flint's shoulders and down to his elbows and squeezing there for a second. He cleared his throat again. "That's all."

"Can't believe there isn't an incantation or something you're supposed to chant while that's happening," Flint quipped, rather more hoarsely than intended.

"Yeah, I skipped the poem I was supposed to recite." By the time Flint had his shirt back on Silver was half smiling down at his hands. "I could've had you ring some little brass bells but then that summons the forest sprites and I don't know that you're up for the ritual with the goat horns that we'd have to do to get the sprites to go away. It's a whole. Problem." He trailed off with his gaze dipping to Flint's mouth. He leaned away. Leaned back. "It's funny you should mention speeches, though. Or talking." 

Flint leisurely started to move his left arm.

"Because after I checked out," Silver said, letting his eyes linger on Flint's knee, then his shoulder, then his eyes. "I talked to you all the time, um, in my head. I think I had gotten used to us talking, daily kinds of talking. Like you do when you're around someone all the time. And I kept talking to you, about nothing at all and everything, and sort of filled in the blanks thinking what you might say in response. Madi noticed -- though she was too angry at first to care if I'd gone batshit crazy."

Flint leisurely wound his left arm around Silver's back and let his palm rest on Silver's hip.

Silver said, "I knew, I _knew_ , Madi would be angry with me with what I did, but her life was in danger and your life and I couldn't-- I miss her too. I didn't come back here because she and I fell apart. But I'd been on my own for a few months and I was tired of talking to myself. And I needed to see that you were all right. Yes," he held up a hand, "I lied to you about not knowing Miranda was who requested the house sitter." He put his hand down. "I just missed your voice." 

He corrected the verb tense: "I miss your voice." He looked up at the ceiling, the way he always did when he was trying not to cry. At the sight of the tears in his eyes a sharp pain flared under Flint's ribcage. "I miss you. I miss being your friend." Silver wiped at the corner of his eye and exhaled. "I have literally nothing else to say at the moment, so if you could just say some--"

Flint stopped Silver's mouth with his own.

~

Their first kiss was warm, firm but chaste. The second kiss moved from tentative, with Silver keeping his eyes open, to melting as Flint did what he could to convince him how badly he wanted to keep kissing him. Silver closed his eyes as he pushed closer. The unguarded way he sought Flint's mouth with his own made Flint's palms prickle with desire as he put Silver's head in his hands. 

After ten minutes, staying on the couch was completely untenable. 

"Is this going too quickly?" Flint asked.

"Oh, yes," Silver breathed, sounding bothered in all the right ways.

"Should we stop?"

"God, no." 

Flint recouped his brain from the mud room for the two minutes it took to walk Silver into the bedroom. Silver, trailing behind, had his hand around Flint's wrist and was looking around like a realtor assessing the room for decorating points. Flint had to laugh or his brain was going to dissolve. He reeled Silver into his arms; their next kiss found Silver's hands cupping Flint's head and his thumb tracing Flint's cheekbone. The kiss deepened, Silver pressing ever closer with little a sound of pleasure, and by the time Flint pulled back, rubbing his nose against Silver's, it was clear both of them needed to sit back down.

Silver kept his hands on Flint's chest. "The chair you had in your cabin," he said, breath hitching as Flint dipped his head to kiss where his shoulder met his throat. Silver seemed to lose the train of thought at Flint bringing his wrist to his mouth, Silver's eyes dark as he watched Flint kiss his pulse. 

It was enough to inspire Flint to a course of action. Silver saw A Plan Has Been Hatched cross Flint's face, surely, because he ruched up Flint's shirt and helped him remove it for hopefully the last time for the night. Flint unbuttoned Silver's shirt without incident, save his own oxygen deprivation as he trailed his fingertips up Silver's bare skin. 

They were helping each other out of jeans when Silver said, "Gotta deal with the leg for a sec. Where are we headed?" 

Flint pulled him to the one chair in the room, a giant tub chair almost the size of a sofa. Technically upholstered in a paisley material that rivaled 1970s men's golf pants for sheer hideousness, the tub was made twice as comfortable and 900 times as attractive by being draped in a pale gray cotton coverlet. Silver didn't exactly tear his prosthetic off and lob it onto the desk but it was a close thing. By this point, he was shivering with contained laughter and Flint kissed him into the tub chair and onto his lap, both of them unable to stop bursting out quiet laughs between kisses. 

"Suave," Silver said, smiling against Flint's throat.

Flint held Silver near and stroked him everywhere he could find warm skin above the waist, lest Flint's brain begin to bleed out of his ears more quickly than necessary. Silver's ears, in fact, were perfect, as was the base of his throat and the line of his sternum, his scented palms and the back of his neck, where he was already turning pink. Silver scraped his teeth under Flint's ear when Flint smoothed over his stomach and around to his back; he allowed Flint to touch him unceasingly for a few more minutes and then began his own offensive, rubbing a soft thumb over the bitten spot. He touched Flint like he was coaxing him alive from clay, hands molding and fingers skimming over bruises and the two or three scrapes he found, followed by his warm mouth. Silver seemed to stop breathing stroking Flint's chest, his eyes disbelieving and lovesick. His eyes flicked up to Flint's again and Flint caught his sweet mouth in a kiss, sliding his tongue against his and teasing his way inside. 

"You don't have to be gentle with me," Silver whispered, letting his hands slip lower down Flint's belly.

"What if I want to be gentle with you?" Flint asked softly, watching Silver flush down to his tiny navel. He felt strongly that Silver deserved an award for being enchanting and tried to convey this with as much kissing as either of them could withstand. After several minutes of concerted effort -- he wanted Silver persuaded, dammit -- Flint chose to demonstrate to his own recently battered body/ego that he was capable of picking up a whole other grown human and moved Silver to the bed. 

"Fuck gravity," Silver said, wiping either horror or a grin off of his face. He reached for Flint like Flint might not follow; his impatience made Flint nearly glow with pride.

Flint settled atop him, chanting 'don't embarrass yourself' in his head as his hard cock rubbed against Silver's hard cock. Flint felt the words 'hard cock' knock around in his sloshy brain. These might be my last coherent thoughts, he mused, as Silver's hands stroked his back again and again, still burnishing him to life. He got lost in kissing Silver for another while, until Silver had his knees at Flint's hips.

"For two people who missed the sound of each other's voice," Silver said, nipping at Flint's jaw, "we're not talking much."

They were moving soft and slow together, like the waves just beyond the property had eased into the room and were taking them out to sea.

Flint kissed his eyebrow and smiled without otherwise responding. Silver's expression went innocent and shy as he looked up steadily from beneath his lashes, the way he'd once told Flint they might be friends one day. Heat shot down Flint's spine: some challenges were not to be ignored. He high-fived himself mentally for keeping lube in the bedside table drawer.

Fetching the lube tube lid that he managed to flip across the room was fun! And invigorating! Who didn't enjoy an impromptu jog whilst naked and fully aroused. Silver, who remained on the bed, said absolutely nothing, clearly because if he spoke he was going to howl with laughter. The best part was his generously offering the tube to Flint when Flint returned atop him, triumphant -- wait, no, the best part was definitely Silver's slick fist.

Flint moved to the side by maybe an inch, enough for there to be room for Silver's slippery fingers and his own to tangle together over their pressed-together cocks. They figured out how to touch each other, faster and harder, panting, laughing. They groaned, gasped, kissed. As Flint moved over him again and they found a perfect rhythm for frottage, Silver broke the relative silence with his head tossed back, throat glistening, and Flint felt the pleasure crackling through Silver's body as if it were his own, since it absolutely was.

"Captain," Silver begged in a harsh whisper, "please don't stop." 

Making Silver beg had never been explicitly on Flint's wish list but fuck if it ever wouldn't be from here forward.

"Silver, _John,_ god," was all Flint managed to gasp before he was coming, Silver not but a few suspended seconds behind. Their stomachs and chests were streaked white and wet. Flint slumped, and Silver hummed a satisfied sounding note. Feeling deboned, Flint oozed off Silver. 

Silver grabbed his head, kissed him like a pirate who'd barely been sated during battle, and flopped back down, arms outflung. "Fuck."

Flint rose up again to kiss him with every gentleness the moment merited. When he opened his eyes again, Silver's glittered with tears. Flint felt his eyes burning, but also a weight lifting from his shoulders; what had been hollow now felt whole. He and Silver crawl-pull-shifted their way up the mattress together, tossed the lube tube somewhere in the vicinity of the desk (where said lube tube landed with a loud thwunk), sacrificed a pillowcase to clean up, and burrowed under the blankets. They kept kissing, kept touching. Flint curled around Silver and nuzzled his throat and breathed him in. He thought of Thomas saying, Everybody needs a partner. He fell asleep with Silver's fingers braided through his own again and dreamt nothing.

~

After seven hours in the park Flint put Dooley in charge and left early. Silver, having made certain his last shift at Croque was covered, met Flint on the carriage front porch holding a take away box of dinner potentials like poulet rôti crusted with sea salt. It smelled delicious, a temptation for another time. The spectre of Silver leaving town hung at the edge of Flint's mind like a spooky fog. He refused to engage with it; other options held more appeal.

"As a certified housesitter, I should probably not stay the night," Silver said.

"I cannot think of anything Miranda would fret about less than you staying the night here," Flint said. He must have sounded convincing, because Silver's mouth formed an 'Oh.'

"Forgot to say, last night." Flint stopped and took a breath. "Got tested a few months ago. Nothing to, hmm, disturb the results since." 

Silver had snuck up and had his hands on Flint's hips. "Thanks for telling me," he said, stretching up for a kiss.

"Obviously I'm clean except for the syphilis," Flint said, making Silver laugh before another kiss could be completed.

"I got tested in January since I was at the doctor anyway with the plague," Silver offered.

"Flu shots work."

"I know, I'd had one. That's why I didn't die." Silver said the second part far too casually for Flint's comfort.

Flint held him for a minute and breathed in the spicy scent of his throat. When he realized he himself smelled like he'd been nestled in gasoline-soaked grass, he suggested a shower. 

Their mutual seduction moved through a few phases: undressing in a small bathroom, not sexy; getting into the tub without tipping over, not sexy; ice cold water and yelping for five seconds, scrotum-shrinkingly unsexy; finding a way to stay upright as swirling steam filled up the space, Silver holding onto Flint's shoulders as Flint held him against the tile and kissed him breathless, pretty damn sexy.

Silver perched prim as a maiden on the edge of the tub, his hands on Flint's hips as he swallowed Flint's cock down like he'd been born to it? Flint could only form a series of blurry sounds in his mind, and they all spilled out of him as helpless gasps. He kept his hands light on the back of Silver's wet head in encouragement. After a magnificent amount of ecstasy he felt a flash of warning pleasure and pushed at Silver as a signal. When Silver pulled off, mouth swollen, his eyes had gone black as onyx.

Silver bit his lip and kneaded Flint's hip bones. "You could finish," he said, mouth left open just a little as if in anticipation, which Flint honestly could not keep looking at without humiliating ends occuring.

He hauled Silver up by the armpits, Silver giving a small grunt-laugh. 

"Don't want this to be over too fast," Flint said, kissing him thoroughly.

"Okay," Silver said, sounding amused and more than willing to proceed.

Getting out of the tub gracefully: did not happen. Drying off and getting to the bed gracefully: also no.

The length of Silver's body shaking with laughter made the length of Flint's body warm up like he'd been frozen for months and the ice in his veins had passed thawing and gone directly to full boil. He shifted on elbows to be able to touch Silver's face as they kissed, his thumbs stroking Silver's cheeks and the rims of his ears, where he was turning rosey. Silver liked being touched and was surprised at being touched; the way he looked up at Flint sometimes seemed both awed and timid and Flint could feel himself gazing back the same way, the intensity of emotion flowing back and forth between them like a wave. 

A thought pierced through: "I don't always have to be on top," Flint blurted, only mostly wanting to disappear as Silver grinned at him.

"Good to know." Silver ran his fingertips beneath Flint's ears, which were also sensitive enough the light touch made Flint shiver. "But since you're already there I think you should fuck me. If," he said, putting his mouth to Flint's jugular, "you had an interest in that sort of thing."

Verbal response seemed less useful than practical action. It took either thirty seconds or nine years for Flint and Silver to work together opening Silver with slick fingers, Silver's gasps gone shallow and his gaze heavy and hungering. He pulled his knees up to Flint's hips as Flint sank into him unbreathing. Flint went still once fully buried and dipped his head to kiss Silver as tenderly as he knew how. Silver gave the smallest cry of shuddery delight as their tongues met. When Flint began to move he went slowly, trying to keep the connection lit everywhere their bodies touched; Silver let him for a while, and then reminded him, "You don't have to be gentle with me," after which, Flint wasn't. They rocked into each other and together like they'd been lost at sea and finally rescued. It was the most joyous torture Flint had ever experienced.

He jacked Silver's beautiful hard cock and found a cadence that made low, ragged curses flow from him. When Silver came, his fingertips bit into Flint's shoulders and he went utterly silent, eyes screwed shut. Flint kissed his shining throat and his mouth and Silver looked up at him, dazed, and kissed him back, a soft, filthy kiss that set off Flint's own orgasm. Flint emptied into him, collapsing atop him as unsuffocatingly as he could. Everything went muzzy and glowy for a while. Silver nuzzled Flint's ear and throat, caressed his back like he truly could conduct and concentrate earthly energies with his huge hands.

Flint rolled to the side, trailing fingertips through the seed gleaming on Silver's belly and chest. Silver looked as wrecked as Flint felt. They watched each other grow drowsy and soothed. Flint drew Silver into the curve of his body.

"I'm sorry I didn't figure out another way, before," Silver said quietly. His eyes were sad for a moment, prompting a similar sorrow to spread behind Flint's breastbone. 

"I'm sorry too. About me," Flint clarified, his hand around Silver's neck so he could stroke Silver's throat with his thumb.

Silver nodded. Then his expression lifted the most minuscule amount: "I'm especially sorry since if I had figured out another way we could have been fucking the whole time."

"Oh ho ho," Flint said, not too loudly but feeling himself grinning like a shark. "There you are. Welcome back."

The smile Silver returned was a bewitching combination of wicked and bashful. "Hi."

"But, we wouldn't have been-- I mean, you were with Madi."

Silver touched Flint's chin. "Madi is many things. She is really not stupid. I'm not completely certain she would have wanted to be with me if I'd been with you. But she knew what I felt for you was what I felt for her." He laid his palm on Flint's chest. "What I feel."

"Fair." Flint petted his hair. " _We're_ kind of stupid."

Silver raised his arms over his head and stretched. "Oh, we're bona fide idiots."

Flint kissed him, to prove he didn't mind. The future remained unspoken as they drifted asleep. 

~

"Your neighbors are never home," Silver observed. He'd been gnawing on an organic granola bar and blearily staring out the kitchen window.

Flint put an arm around him, kissed the side of his head. Silver listed into him.

"My nearest neighbors are three lots away," Flint said.

"Oh." Silver squinted. "So who lives in those?"

Flint looked at the two longer buildings that took up most of the lot beside the carriage house he and Silver stood in. In broad daylight the buildings' painted wood was the color of red brick. "Technically, I own them, but right now I'm only living in this one."

Silver turned his face up, eyebrows raised in confusion. "What does that mean?"

"We should go next door and see," Flint told him.

He took the skeleton keys off the ring by the back door and guided Silver outside. They walked the short length of pathway to the thick, windowless door at the end of the nearest building. Flint took a deep breath of crisp morning air and unlocked the door. He stepped inside and held out a hand.

Silver took his hand and stepped up. He did not let go when a ray of sunlight pierced through a window opposite the door. The light bounced off an old, dinged, but polished length of deep brown walnut counter and lit up the whole kitchen, including the wooden sign -- featuring a carved walrus snoozing in a field of daffodils -- that leaned against an industrial sized sink. Flint could tell the moment the sign's significance registered with Silver.

Silver's voice shook a tiny bit when he said, "You bought a tavern." He gripped Flint's hand like there was a danger of quicksand. 

"A historic tavern. The Meadow Walrus, 1832. Closed many years ago. The last people to own this property used it as part of their house. The lot, this close to the water and everything, but sheltered here in this niche of the coastline, would still make a great location for a tavern," he added conversationally.

"Why did you buy--" Silver looked around, eyes wild. "--All of this if you're only going to live in the carriage house?

"Yeah, I don't know." Flint traced the rim of Silver's ear with his thumb, and then kissed him on the forehead. "It's a complete mystery."

Silver gaped at him for a minute. Flint basked in Silver's dumbfounded expression and enjoyed feeling smug.

"You couldn't possibly… You shouldn't give me a tavern," Silver said.

"I'm not giving you a tavern," Flint lied. "But we could share one someday, maybe. As partners."

"Still feeling like all the lawyers in town just sensed the earth shifting," Silver said after a moment. But his eyes were bright.

A buzzing noise interrupted. Silver took his phone out of his pocket. He read the text and gave a watery chuckle. "Miranda says she and Thomas are headed to Zurich for a couple of weeks. Do I mind extending my house sitting contract?"

"You don't," Flint said. A miniscule prickling doubt pinched at his throat. "Unless you have someplace else to be."

Silver looked at him for another moment, searching his face. Whatever he saw made his expression fill with longing and hope. 

"No," he said, "I can stay a while longer."

**Author's Note:**

> -oodles of thanks again to Memeromatikan for the wonderful drawings that turn me into a big ball of flail <3
> 
> -thank you to [Clenster](https://clenster.tumblr.com/) for reading an early draft and giving snazzy feedback
> 
> -title and epigraph from Hopkins's poem "Spring"
> 
> -ftr I deliberately left the nature of the Hamilton's relationship with each other and Flint unlabeled
> 
> -from Ancestry.com:  
>  _Nassau Name Meaning_  
>  German, Dutch, and Jewish (western Ashkenazic): habitational name from the town of Nassau, formerly the seat of an independent duchy. The place name derives from Old High German naz ‘damp’, ‘wet’ + ouwa ‘water meadow’
> 
> :)


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